What I want to be when I grow up. A political assassin, apparently.

I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up. Some days I want to be a director, some days a writer, some days an acting tutor, some days an actress, some days to sit around and make beautiful things that people will look at and be happy, and sometimes when I have someone else’s child in my arms, I just want to go and live on a farm with ducks and chickens and cats, or in a city with busy-ness and noise and lots of life and things, and have lots and lots of children. Well, a couple anyway. I’ll just keep having them until I get bored.

(I was once coming home from a gig late at night, and just outside Ladbroke Grove Tube station, A man stopped me, from his position on the pavement, and, clutching his bottle of cider in one hand he pointed at me with the other and gave me an incredible piece of advice — “What you’ve got to do, y’see. What you’ve got to do, is to live forever. Or until you get bored”)

When I was little, I seem to remember, I wanted to be a fairy princess, then a teacher, a mum, a jazz singer, a lawyer, a bassist in a band (I can’t play a journalist, an actress, and all sorts of other random things. Usually for less than a week did I want to be these things, but they were aspirations all the same.

It would seem, however, that my destiny, planned or no, was to be a paid assassin.

I have in my possession a piece of paper. On one side is  a picture of a Princess, wearing a pink dress, high heels and a big bow in her (my) hair.  On the other side is the following story:

“One night I dreamed that children ruled the World- I was the princess of the world.
I said that all the grown-ups had to go to bed early.

I had a very important job.
One fine day, we decided to kill Margaret Thatcher.

So we burned her, and I got 9,000 pounds.” The end.

I was six at the time.

And the teacher had simply ticked it, and written “Good”. I’d be demanding meetings with the parents. There’s heavy socialism in there somewhere. Can’t be good for a child. You end up a craft-worker on a remote Scottish island with that kind of thing.

Anyone got any ideas what a drama trained, artist-employed, not bad at writing amusing shite, barmaid could do when she grows up?

No? Me neither.